You had to want to see them — and we did. We were even told where to look, and yet, for a split second, it was hard to distinguish them from the rocks of every other beach. And they weren’t beautiful, until I realized that they were seals. When I imagined these lumps up from their naps, barking and flopping, when I watched the slow up and down of their jiggly breaths, they became alive, real, fascinating even! The longer I looked, stories were revealed. One pup headed back from the water (I guess even seal children struggle to take a nap.) Two snuggled a little closer to each other. They weren’t all the same. These seemingly lifeless rocks at first glance had a story to tell.
I worry about how much we miss. How much we pass by. How many humans we just write off. What if we took the time to really see? I suppose it’s impossible to know everyone’s story, but what if we just acknowledged that everyone has one, that everyone is on a journey. What if we allowed each other to explore? To dare the sea? What if we allowed each other to rest? All in our own time. From ship to shore. Wouldn’t it all, wouldn’t we all, seem a little more beautiful?
I complimented her on the croissants, the barista at Juniper coffee shop in San Francisco. We returned the next morning — they were that good! In this sea of people, riding this wave of Saturday morning coffee drinkers and weary tourists, I smiled when she remembered my name. I had been standing in line for over 10 minutes. She wasn’t calling anyone else out. Never underestimate the power of a compliment.
I suppose we’re always looking for our tribe. It doesn’t always happen, but I know where to look — where I will have my best chance. Sometimes it’s obvious. Book stores. We went to City Lights. The City Lights masthead says “a literary meeting place since 1953,” and this concept includes publishing books as well as selling them. I bought a book and a postcard before I saw the pin — “Open Books. Open Minds. Open Hearts.” As he handed me the bag, I said, OH, Is it too late to add this?” He said, “You can have it.” My people.
We all want to see the landmarks. The bridges. But it’s always the people I remember most. The interactions — they are the souvenirs I carry. And it goes both ways. I am not the only one watching. How will I be remembered? In this time. In this moment. How am I acting? I always catch my mistakes, but unfortunately not always before I make them. But I’m still learning. I’m still trying. Because people will remember. People do remember. So I ask you, I ask myself, Who do you want to be, when they call you out by name?
If we are to take any comfort from the Yeats poem, in times of unrest and mayhem, there will always be a force bringing about a new age, and we will continue “slouching towards Bethlehem.”
I had first read it in college, but as with any art, it takes on new meaning as I, we, bring new meaning to the words. And maybe it was Joan Didion who brought the most understanding as she wrote under those same words in a collection of essays. Didion begins with a series of essays set in California, her home state. She paints a vivid picture of the Golden State, capturing its unique blend of beauty and decay. She explores the lives of those who live on the fringes of society, from Haight-Ashbury’s hippie culture to the world of migrant workers in the Central Valley.
Perhaps we romanticize everything. Perhaps we have to. Visiting Haight and Ashbury yesterday, it is filled with thrift stores — adorned by the colors of being hippie. And I too am woo-ed like the other tourists. But the daily news looms over our heads. You can feel it. There is an unrest that no tie-dye can calm. Yeats writes, “Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.” He says, “The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” And daily, we have to decide who we are.
I thumb through the rack of colorful t-shirts. I’m looking for answers – but there are none in my size. So I keep writing. I keep painting. I keep believing. Hoping a word, a stroke, will straighten my stride, strengthen it.
Walking away from Haight. Running away from hate. Slouching towards Bethlehem.
I don’t remember the assignment. Were we studying California? I can’t be sure. But the speed at which I raced home from Washington Elementary, (well, the bus went at it’s normal lumbering yellow pace, but my mind was feverishly blurring) to build a replica of the Golden Gate Bridge, reflected the certainty of my need to cross over.
The size was already established. I found only one piece of plywood in the shed that divided our lot and Dynda’s empty one. Did I ask for permission to use it? I hope I did. Anything found on Van Dyke Road seemed like community property, so I put it in my rusted wagon and went back to our basement. Since the Tech School renters had moved out, I used the downstairs kitchen for making things – anything. I wasn’t allowed to use a saw, this would have to be the size. I went upstairs. Put a chair in front of the cupboard where my mom “hid” the chocolate chips. Passed them over. There was art to be made. I opened the thin cupboard beside and pulled out the off-brand roll of tin foil. It was probably only minutes, but it seemed a lifetime, with feet dangling over the kitchen floor, that I worked to release the foil from its own jagged grip. Once freed, I ran back downstairs and covered the entire sheet of plywood. Crinkled it like waves. With neither a mask nor a drop cloth, I spray painted it blue (also found in the shed). There was nothing left to do but plan my argument on how my mother should drive me back to town after just driving home from work. I had already made a list. Popsicle sticks. Glue. Wire. Red paint. I watched the second hand on the clock.
Once released from her nylons and having heard my plea, my mom drove us back to Ben Franklin and purchased the goods. It took me an entire week to finish. It was too big for the bus, nearly three feet in length, and almost as high, so my mother once again had to drive me to school. Nyloned or not, I never heard her complain.
I suppose we received grades, but that’s the thing about art, the real joy comes in the doing. It was my first bridge. I have been building them ever since. Word by word. Heart by heart. Day by day. Seeing it yesterday, The Golden Gate, I was reminded, the only reason I am here today, is my willingness, my eagerness, to cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.
It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
